Holding Out For a Hero
by angelnlove52
Summary: Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night I toss and turn, and dream of what I need-I need a hero. B/E. Contains mature themes/rape/incest?/abuse/violence.
1. Prelude

Holding out for a Hero

Prologue

In the past, whenever I thought of death, I always saw it as a permanent thing. You died and that was it. I never realized the varying degrees of death. Turning myself over to the man who abused me and raped me for over a year was in and of itself my own form of death. The most tragic kind. The kind where you still have to live through it, you not only witness everything but you have to endure it first hand and still have to find a way to cope somehow. But in the face of this death, I would continue to live this death if it meant _he_ was able to live—if it meant he would be free to enjoy everything in life he'd ever worked for. If I had to die, I would forever choose to die in place of the one I loved.

.

.

.

Hold on. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

-I know it's been awhile, my friends. RL has been a kicker. I mean seriously. I believe I've been kicked in the teeth, the stomach, the heart, and anywhere else you could imagine. I will save you all the sob story, because truthfully, there were some good things that have happened in the past year as well.

But, I'm here, I have a new story that is almost complete. As of right now, this story will be posted without being beta'd. I do not currently have one for this project, I've just kind of winged it, so if there are any takers out there, I would happily send over some chapters for you to look at. In true Angel fashion, this story will be angsty, hold context of rape, and will be for mature audiences. Don't say I didn't warn you later on.

Thank you for starting this journey with me,

-Angel


	2. Chapter 1: Loss

Warning: This story is for MA audiences only. This story contains adult themes, suggests, and depicts rape and abuse of a minor and other questionable actions. A HEA is promised, but there will be a lot of muck to shovel before we get there. This warning applies to the entire story. I have not experienced the feelings or goings on of this story, but keep in mind, every writer writes for some sort of therapy … to clear a memory, to get rid of thoughts, to work out their past … the list goes on.

My heart and tears go out to anyone who suffered from the effects of 9/11. You are in my thoughts and prayers every day. Your loss is not forgotten, and lives through us all. You are not alone.

No beta was used in the writing process of Holding Out For a Hero, all errors are mine. Please be kind and remember, it is harder to read and edit your own work than it is to edit anyone else's … as a writer, you know what is supposed to be there and your mind sometimes tells you it is.

Note: I will not be showing POV's in this story. There will be a line between each pov break, but that will be the only indication anything has changed. I will make it obvious who's pov is what by the first few sentences of each break. This is my effort to become a more communicative author. If I am failing at this, please let me know.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyers owns Twilight and all its related character's and themes. No copyright infringement intended. HOfH and its plot is written and owned by Angelnlove52. This disclaimer applies to all of the following chapters.

_Holding Out for a Hero_

_Chapter One: Loss_

Story Song: Holding Out for a Hero, Ella Mae Bowen version

Where have all the good men gone

And where are the gods?

Where's the street wise Hercules

To fight the rising odds?

Isn't there a white knight

Upon a fiery steed?

Late at night I toss and turn

And dream of what I need

Loss and all its derivatives are terms we all tend to use very loosely. You lose your keys, misplace your shoes, mishandle a bid on a house, or miss an opportunity, hell, you even give your virginity—or lose it, depending who you ask. Some use the word many times a day, in baseball for example, 'I lost the ball to the sun', in football, 'I lost my footing'. In my life, it wasn't a word I spoke lightly. Since the age of seven, I knew with perfect clarity what it truly meant to lose something—something tangible. When the officers of my dad's precinct showed up at my door on September eleventh, I learned firsthand what loss truly meant. I felt it grip at my soul and tear at my insides. I learned in an instant what some never learn—loss isn't for the faint of heart, and it isn't as simple as losing the remote to the couch cushions.

Loss can do many things to one's life, it can make you fall down and never gain your footing again, help you grow and become stronger, force you into a shell of the person you once were, or even cause you to give up. Loss can teach you everything you need to know about yourself and it can show you your strengths and weaknesses. More importantly, it can show you how to stand on your own and change your life for the better. It can show you how to overcome and move mountains if you will allow it.

That's one thing I can truly respect my mother's free spirited ways for, I never felt like I lost as much as others did. Strike that, let me rephrase. My father was my best friend, so I understood what I lost the day the towers crumbled—what I meant to say was some kids lost both their parents that day, one to the towers and the other because they couldn't go on after the loss. Because of my mother's strength and determination, she never crumbled, which in turn, taught me the strength to go on and live my life, as my father would have wanted me to. She taught me that to overcome loss, you had to learn resolve.

Surrender wasn't in my father's vocabulary unless he was turning over a criminal, therefore, why should it be in mine? My mother always asked me why I felt the need to give up and spend days in bed when there was so much life to live, encouraging me to live on and live strong in the memory of my father. If he couldn't feel the sun on his face, then we should feel it for him so he could feel it through us. This was also how she talked me into skydiving, and parasailing, and come to think of it, getting my first tattoo.

I think, originally, she planned on using that little slip of guilt to keep me on the straight and narrow, but what she didn't realize was, I was my father's daughter—as tight laced and law abiding as they came. When other kids were at parties drinking, I was out dancing and living just as my father would have wanted … although I would guess he wouldn't have been too excited about the boys I was grinding up on. At least I could say I was drug and alcohol free, and well, still a virgin; I'm sure he would have been more than pleased to hear the last adjective.

At least that's how I lived my life until just after my fifteenth birthday. A week and a few days after the big one-five b-day, I experienced the greatest loss of my life. It's one of those moments where you remember everything, every smell, sound, taste, feeling, vision. We were driving over the Delaware on our way home from the city. It was just past five, so the sky was already turning down for the evening, the masses of trees lining the highway did nothing but hide the already changing evening sky. Third Eye Blind's song, _Semi Charmed Life_ was playing through the speakers in my step-father's new Escapade and of course the Mets just lost another game, so Phil wasn't the happiest of pitchers, especially since he was the reason they gave away the last homerun.

Mom and Phil were arguing, again, about how my step-brother, James, wanted to go off to Seattle for college and how supportive my mother was being. Apparently, Phil felt as though he should stay close to home, go to NYU, while my mother offered him whatever he wanted. Just as with me, she felt our dreams needed to be recognized and lived to the fullest, because who knew when life would be taken from us. I don't remember her exact wording, I only remember the look of utter hatred that flashed in Phil's eyes before he lost whatever thread of sanity he had and started whaling on my mom in the passenger seat, all the while screaming at her about how all she does is take things away.

Three solid hits to the face was all it took for him to lose control of the car, lose focus on the road in front of him, and for him to lose his life instantly as the water crashed in through his open window.

Everything after that was a blur of water and possible hallucinations. I know my mother got me out of the car, though I'm not sure how. After that, it all becomes questionable. If I wanted to be admitted, I would fully admit my dad is the one who pulled me to shore and made sure I was safe while taking my mother home with him so she could finally be loved the way she should be. The story I told the public was my mother swam me to shore then was sucked under by a riptide.

Whichever way you wanted to swing it, they both, in a way, were true. I was pulled from the car by my mother, and she was taken home with my father, leaving me here, alone, to fair this great planet and realize more eternally how much of a four letter word loss truly really was.

In a matter of moments, I became an orphan and deemed a ward of the state.

My story was broadcasted all over the news channels throughout New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. The big story being: the up and coming Mets pitcher, who was in the pinnacle of his career, lost his life in a tragic accident. Thankfully, I was only used as a secondary: the young girl who lost both of her parents within weeks of each other. When you think of it like that, it makes me sound like a curse. One parent died September eleventh, the other September the nineteenth. If my mom had a choice, she would have left eight days prior just so she could be with my dad on the day he was taken. Even though her body belonged to Phil, her heart still belonged to the man she gave it to seventeen years prior. He was still in her nightly prayers and we continually talked about him when it was just the two of us. My Daddy might have been gone, but he was never forgotten—he was always our hero.

Once the word got out, cards rolled in, donations were made, tears were shed, and lies were told. I never breathed a word of what truly happened that day, as far as anyone knows, the pitcher they all knew and loved, died trying to save his family after he swerved and missed a deer in the middle of the road. He died a hero—a title he neither deserved nor earned.

In short, I was more than eager to flee from the city and all its memories. At this point, my only options were foster care, or to live with the only family I had left, my nineteen-year-old step brother.

Life after that was a road of compromises. James and I had lived with each other briefly while in Jersey, before moving to Seattle so he could attend the University of Washington. But he ran his life, I had mine to contend with. Our roads only crossed when we had mandated family functions or we passed one another in the hall going to and from other parts of the house. Growing up an only child, learning to have a brother was a little different, especially an older one.

All of his friends were attractive and pretended not to look me up and down as I entered a room, or watch my ass sway as I exited. It was creepy seeing as though I was fifteen and they were going on eighteen. James always muttered something about my innocence being a damn turn on or a game to them. Either way, he put an end to it rather quickly—thank god. I never understood their fascination. I was just Bella—too pale, too mousey, my ears were slightly too big for my face, my nose was too dainty looking, and my face was 'shaped like a heart' (at least that's what my mother's description was).

Living with each other now was no different—with the exception we are now older, our parents aren't around to supervise us, and we have only ourselves to rely on. Everything between us now had to be a give and take. Every week we had to decide who had what duties, which bills had to be paid and when and where I needed to be for school functions so he could plan around it. Quickly, I grew thankful all of my friends had cars and could transport me to and from where I needed to go.

Eventually, James and I grew used to our new life together. We found a good give and take, and we ran with it. He never asked where I was going and I never asked what he was doing. The only rule we maintained about our whereabouts was to always call if the other was needed and to stay out of sticky situations because neither of us could afford to lose another loved one.

The hardest thing to get used to was the frat-house style of living. Our living room consisted of two large sofas, in which I demanded stayed clean, black lights and it's matching posters and high lighter on the walls, and Animal House posters everywhere. It was a far cry from the conservative lifestyle I lived in New York. The only rooms that didn't scream college bachelor were the bedrooms which remained locked most times of the day in case any of James' friends decided to stop by. Regardless of how free spirited she was, my mother would undeniably roll her eyes at my surroundings, telling us all the ways our space was unbecoming.

But tattoos were okay (go figure, in some ways she was still a hippy). Getting back to my first tattoo. It was the eve of my sixteenth birthday and the events of the year prior were weighing heavily on my mind. I wanted something on me to commemorate their lives, to show their lasting effects on my life in some tangible way. The words I'd heard whispered a thousand times before came back to me, "Live with no regrets and let him feel alive through you." They were perfect and what I needed to make up my mind.

Three bus stops and a flash of my fake later, I was sitting face down in an artist's chair relishing the slight pin print across my back. My mom had asked me several times before what I would get if I were ever to take the leap; the answer was always the same, a badge with NYPD in block lettering with my father's badge number beneath. This time, my answer was different. This time, I had both parents to remember. It started at the base of my neck on the left hand side and worked down across my back ending at the top of my right hip. The cluster of stars started out a dark navy, showing the blue of my father's dress blues, lightening a little more with each little star, running through the shades of purple and on to the pinks where it ended with the color of a light rose—my mother's favorite flower.

It took three hours to get them all outlined and shaded in. A part of me thought the sick fuck above me was enjoying his time touching a braless, virgin in his chair, but the rest of me ignored that part. At this point, I didn't care. I was finally giving in to another part of me that wanted to feel some pain for what I did to my mother.

That last sentence makes me sound ill. I'm not. I realize what happened that day wasn't my fault. I know my mother didn't die because of me, but at the same time, I was allowed to grieve—my mother did lose her life while saving me after all. Some guilt rightfully belonged on my shoulders her life gave me life. No matter the guilt, I still lived by the same mentality. She would have wanted me to live, not just survive. And that was exactly what I was going to do.

My mother's saying kept me in check most days. I was living my life with no regrets, thanking the heavens above each day the sun rose over the horizon so I could show them life through my eyes once again. James was afraid I was living my life for my parents, maybe certain parts of me were, but it was only because there were times I needed them as a beacon to draw my strength.

In reality, I was living because I'd always been taught that giving up was easy, fighting was the hard part. I had the rest of my life to make my parents proud and I wasn't about to let their sacrifice go to waste. My father died for his country, my mother died for me, I wasn't about to let a legacy of hero's end with them. Even if I had to be my own hero and pull myself out of this hellhole, I was going to do it. I would die my own hero if that were the last thing I did.

Maybe that does make me sick. Maybe James was right, maybe I did need to see someone about that. As I saw it, I was a living, breathing, active member of society. I donated time in the children's ward at the hospital, I worked down at the local firehouse making them food while they were out and busy saving lives, and I lived as any fifteen, almost sixteen-year-old would.

Every Friday and Saturday night, I was present at the party of the week, and every Sunday I recouped from a busy weekend. Mondays through Thursdays were devoted to my studies and I made sure to celebrate every A, and work harder at any B. Life wasn't perfect, but it was high school, who expected it to be? There were the mean girls, the cliques, the jocks, the emo kids, the geeks, and then there were the rest of us that fit in with everyone and roamed around the building.

That was my life in high school, my best friends, Rose and Emmett, were the most popular kids in school, they didn't fit in just one class, so they blended with everyone. Tanya and Kate were the sluts of the school, but two of the nicest people you'd ever meet so they came to our group by default. Jacob and Sam were the goofballs everyone loved to laugh at, but were ruggedly handsome, plus it didn't hurt they were the stars on the football team with Emmett so they joined up with us as well. Then there was me, the one who didn't really fit in with the pretty, perfect people with faults, but was accepted because Rose loved my hair the first day and Jacob thought I was hot. It was Emmett who really brought me in and took to calling me lil' sis. Somehow, we all became some kind of dysfunctional family system—the only family system I had.

When you really peeled back the layers, you saw what we really were to each other. All of us suffered some kind of a loss over the years. Kate and Tanya lost their dad, their sleeping around was instigated by watching their mother sleep around to cope with the loss when they were younger—at least that's what their shrink says. Jake lost his mom in a car accident when he was five—his life was spared. Sam lost his girlfriend two years ago to leukemia, and Rose's parents were absent from her life, leaving her to run their mansion on her own with the loose supervision of a nanny who stopped caring years ago. The only one of us who hadn't suffered the emptiness of a death close to him, was Emmett. We would never begrudge him of that though. I think silently we were all jealous he was whole.

Because of his family dynamic, we typically crashed on his sofa every day after school. His mom was one of those stay at home moms who kept a clean house and cooked non-stop. My favorite thing about Mrs. McCarty was the fact that she accepted me as an addition to her family. Everything after that was only an added bonus. She gave me a mother figure without trying to over shadow the mother I already had and lost. Her arms were always warm and inviting when James and I were fighting. She would pick us up at three a.m. when we drank too much to drive home, and she honestly cared about each and every one of us.

In turn, Emmett was one of those people you could always turn to. I couldn't count how many times within the past year he'd picked me up from James' house when the parties got too loud or his friend's were too grabby. It wasn't that James didn't take care of me, he did, if I ever told him about his friends, or if they breathed a word about what they tried with me, he would beat the living shit out of them. There were strict no touching rules and everyone knew the consequences.

That was the thing, for as protective as Emmett was, James was a million times worse. Emmett would make people cower in their socks just by looking at them, where as James would take care of it with his fists and make sure they never looked back. Emmett was silent and stern and James was brutal and full of dominance.

James would always tease and claim any boyfriend would have to go through the dual brother test because he knew they would never pass it. Everyone at school was afraid of Emmett strictly because of his size and the fact he had Jake and Sam to back him up, but they'd all heard stories of my brother. Carmen Eleazar came to school two weeks in, telling everyone about how crazy my older brother was because he beat the shit out of her brother for just looking at me.

James' protective nature knew no bounds. If I went to the grocery, he was with me, eyeing down any possible pervs I may encounter (not that there were any). Everyone at the firehouse was warned of what would happen if anything happened to me on their watch. I was shocked when they let me come back the next day and make them spaghetti. I had two nurses at the hospital I volunteered at that James slept with on a continual basis keeping an eye on me, reporting any wrong behavior to him as if I were a child being babysat.

Even if I wanted to date, it would be deemed impossible just because of how much James worried about me. It was endearing at first, seeing as though my original protectors died, but seeing as though I was encroaching on sixteen; it was growing a bit overbearing.

Either way, at least I had someone to look out for me. Every night there was someone who made sure I was in my bed safe and unharmed. Every day, there was the same person making sure I had a roof over my head and I got to school on time. As frequently as he ticked me off, he reassured me that he loved me and that he was always going to be there to take care of me. We were all we had left in this world; I couldn't begrudge him of making sure we were okay. Besides, when I turned eighteen in two years and moved to Phoenix with Rose and Emmett, things would change.

Things had to change. I could only hope for the better.

Over the course of a week, I quickly learned that protectiveness caused by loss leads to destruction. The night of my sixteenth birthday turned into an endless chaos of screaming and soon to be discovered bruises. It was one of those nights out of a horror movie.

My friends made plans for us to catch dinner then were planning to take me to see the new Justin Timberlake movie—not that he hadn't had a new one coming out every week lately. Those plans quickly fell through when James came home informing me I was staying in and celebrating the way real women do. At the time, I rolled my eyes and huffed in annoyance, but couldn't really say much, I was living with him on borrowed time. I mean, really, what twenty year old would allow their kid step-sister to live with them—especially when their parents had only been married for two years.

It wasn't as if James and I were close before the accident, in fact we hardly talked. He had his things to do … I had mine. He was in high school with the big kids, and I was the middle school geek who thought all his friends were hot. Yeah, James thought that trait was annoying as shit and tried to keep them away from the house as much as possible. Occasionally, his friends would throw me an olive branch and pity flirt with me, but James always claimed it was because I was starting to get my boobs and they wanted to cop a feel of a virgin pussy.

Can we say gross!?

Now that he was in college and I was in high school, things changed. Somehow, even though he was still four years older than me, it was acceptable for us to be seen together. It wasn't uncommon for us to walk around parties with his arm draped over my shoulders, introducing me as his Bella—always _his _Bella never just Bella. Rose claimed it was his way of telling all of his friends to 'fuck off'. Emmett thought it was disgusting, and I was impartial. Sure, it bugged the shit out of me, but who was I to say any different? James worked two jobs, went to college, and took care of me, he could rightfully introduce me however he saw fit.

The night of my sixteenth birthday, all those thoughts changed just as my life did. It started off as any birthday had. Unmentionable. I woke up in my pink plaid boxer shorts and one of my dad's oversized, navy NYPD shirts that he used to wear for training with my hair piled on top of my head in a rat's nest so it would stay off my neck as I slept. No one was there to wish me a happy birthday as they had when I was a child. My mom wouldn't be bouncing on the balls of her feet at the edge of my bed, teetering my birthday cake in her hands, and my father wasn't standing at the stove flipping my favorite flap jacks as my favorite birthday treat.

It'd been years since I'd had one of those days, yet I could remember them so vividly now. Since my mother's death, I hadn't wanted anyone to celebrate my birthday. We were allowed to go have a casual dinner and cards were often exchanged, but that was the extent of what I allowed. Why would I want to celebrate a day that is centered around getting wishes and blowing out candles so your wishes could come true? There were only two things I wanted, and I couldn't have either. To me, this day was all about what I couldn't have verses the world being at my fingertips.

This year would just prove another reason why I hated birthdays, and why I would continue to do so for the next few years. Somehow, my birthdays always brought about destruction. It was as if I were the catalyst and my day of birth put it all into motion.

"Hey, Bells, what do you say we head down to Mccarthy's for a few drinks? Peter is working and said he'd give you the hook up," James offered, sticking his head in my door. I looked up and watched his arm muscles ripple as he braced himself against my doorframe. He always did that, took up the entire doorway no matter where he was, it was as if he were afraid people would escape and he had to keep them rooted. Emmett always felt caged in because of it, for some reason I felt safe. If he was standing in the doorway, nothing evil could get in and get me.

That thought constantly plagued my mind. Since when did I start seeing James as my protector?

"I've got school tomorrow, but we can go. You think he'll give me some of those chili-cheese fries I love?" I asked, wanting the grease as a comfort food, but at the same time hoping he wouldn't let me get them because loaded calories were the last thing I needed this time of the month. I was already bloating enough; I didn't need to add a million carbs and all that sodium to my water retaining gut.

James raised his eyebrow at me in question. "You had that bad of a day?" He knew my tell. Fries, chili-cheese fries or McDonald's fries to be exact, and potato chips were my comfort food—always had been, probably always would be.

I simply shrugged my shoulders in answer. It wasn't that I had a bad day, it just wasn't the ideal birthday so therefore it wasn't a good day. I was homesick, I wanted the comfort of my mom, and I desperately wanted to believe that everything would be okay; all the while I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. That's the way it always is with destruction, when you least expect it is when it comes creeping up on you and splats you straight in the face.

With that in mind at all times, I hardly let my guard down.

"You know how it is around this time of year," I said, simply leaving it at that. When both of your parents died within days of your birthday, it only made things a little gloomier. September had seemingly only brought about destruction, never any well wishes.

"Yup, which is why we are doing something different this year. No more pouting and moping. We are going to celebrate life," he informed tensing his biceps slightly, causing his muscles to jerk with the motion.

"Okay, okay. What do you have in mind?" I asked sheepishly.

"Like I said, McCarthy's. We're getting our drink on."

I groaned. Typically, 'getting our drink on' meant I'd end up plastered by the end of the night with a killer hangover in the morning. Damn James and his drinking games.

As promised, Peter had the hook up. Three LIT's and two Sex on the Beaches later, James was practically carrying me home. I was trashed, but I was still semi-coherent. I knew what was going on around me, I was just loopy and goofy as hell. Every time something came out of my mouth, I had James in near hysterics.

Once we walked through the front door, things began to grow hazy in my drunken stupor. I wasn't a huge drinker so I was a light weight compared to all of my friends, they all knew it and constantly used it against me. Jake frequently called me the two bit hooker since I was such a 'cheep date.' I knew it was all in good fun, but the reality wasn't far from the teasing in this case.

I remembered the kiss. His lips were soft at first, gaining urgency as it progressed. James' hands were hot on my cheeks as they enclosed my face and held me to him. Every alarm in my head was going off but I was too gone to really compartmentalize what I was doing.

"Do you know how much I love you?" he murmured before kissing me again, this time his kisses trailed down my neck. "Isabella, I would do anything for you; I would die for you, Baby."

Goosebumps broke out across my arms and down the back of my neck as a chill hit my spine in a way to make me shiver. His words hit me like one of those things that go bump in the night. I remember wanting to tell him to stop, but everything after that is such a blur, I couldn't tell you what happened next.

The next morning brought about one of the worst migraines I could have ever imagined. My heart had somehow found its way the front of my skull and decided to pound as if I'd just run a marathon. My eyes felt as if needles were poking in through my lids and into the core. All the while, the taste of stale alcohol and something pungent consumed my taste buds. I heard the groan beside me before I felt the heat of someone lying practically on top of me.

The next thing I registered were warm, wet lips meeting the skin of my neck, gently caressing it with open mouthed kisses. I pulled away from the sensation quickly, startled at the feeling, then groaned as the movement only served to intensify my raging hangover.

"Baby, do you need Advil?" an all too familiar voice whispered next to my face. Confusion set in before I could answer him. What was James doing in my bed? I was in my bed right? Why is he ….

Oh shit, the memories of the kiss rushed into my mind, causing my stomach to boil with acid and my throat to grow thick with the need to vomit. My limbs scattered and tangled as I tried to disentangle myself from the many blankets and extra limbs littering my bed. My eyes opened long enough to see the floor coming to meet my face so I could brace myself with my hands and to find the nearest entrance to a bathroom.

Stomach acid rose and projected the moment I lifted the toilet seat. Yellow foam and clear water met and mixed like oil and vinegar, causing me to lose more contents just from the sight. I felt James pull back my hair before I even registered his presence in the room, causing my body to tighten and another stomach convulsion to take charge. I wanted to pull away, I wanted to scream questions at him, and find out exactly what happened last night but my body was too busy dispelling the vial liquid I had consumed mere hours earlier.

"Isabella, Baby, I'm sorry you're sick. What can I do for you? What can I get for you?" he asked softly, placing a kiss on my temple. I whimpered at the contact, wanting him as far away from me as possible. I shook my head as another heave left me wordless.

When the dry heaves finished, I pushed myself away from his touch harshly and scooted back toward the tub, curling into myself and noticing for the first time I was naked. I looked up at James, took note of his lack of clothing, and felt a different type of illness take over. Suddenly, I felt cold, dirty, and raw. My body began to shiver and my teeth began to chatter as I shifted slightly and felt the soreness between my legs.

As I looked up at my step-brother, the tears were inevitable. "We didn't … You didn't … I'm still …. Please tell me we …." With all the questions I wanted to ask, my mind and my mouth couldn't correlate on which to ask first. "We didn't have sex did we?" I asked, my sobs hanging on by one last, fraying thread.

"No, we made love, there's a big difference, Baby," he said softly, his hand reaching out for me, but I sunk farther into the side of the tub and looked away.

"But I'm … you're …." Once again, words failed me. Even without the fact that he was my step-brother, besides the fact that I wasn't interested in him in any way, shape, or form, he was twenty, I was merely sixteen. Every little thing that I could find wrong with the situation all computed and added up to a loud, house rocking, window shattering scream like sob. I needed out, I needed an exit, I needed away from here but once again, James was blocking it with his large muscular form. My breaths began to speed up to the point of lightheadedness, my body broke out in a cold sweat, and my stomach felt the need to purge the contents it no longer held.

"Isabella, it's okay, I love you, I'm going to take care of you," James told me over my loud agonizing cries. Before I could protest, his arms were around me, holding me to his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist the other curled up and flattened across the side of my face, holding my head into his neck. This position was familiar to me; we'd held it many times since my mother died. At first, it was a nightly ritual as my nightmares tormented me, but as time passed, the sentiment had lessened.

"Why'd you do this to me?" I finally asked through a shuddering breath.

"I love you, Isabella. I want you with me always, and I will do whatever I have to do to make sure that happens. You belong to me now and you will belong to me forever." The even keel to his voice sent a tremor through my body. He was calmer than anything I'd ever seen.

"But you're my brother," I cried softly, my hands balling up on his chest and attempting to push him away from me.

"Hardly. My blood does not run through your veins," he answered simply.

"I'm only a junior in high school …." I started, but he cut me off.

"You are at the age of consent. You're legal." My body froze and immediately locked down. I'd heard Kate and Tanya talk about how they were able to sleep up because the age of consent in Washington was sixteen.

"I wanted to save myself for …."

James' grip on me tightened to the point of almost suffocation. "You were saving yourself for the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. That's me, Isabella. You will forever be mine. You will never belong to anyone else. If I ever so much as see another man looking at you, I will kill him. If another man ever even _thinks_ of touching you, I will cut his fucking dick off and shove it down his throat before I cause his destruction. Do you understand me?" Once again, his voice was steely calm and collected—almost robotic with his words.

When I didn't answer, his grip tightened, causing my spine to crack with the pressure. "Are we clear, Isabella?"

I whimpered and nodded my head.

"We need to set some ground rules. If I find out you broke any of these rules, there will be consequences, do you understand?"

I sniffled and nodded my acknowledgement of what he demanded.

"Good. First, you will be moving into my room today. You will sleep in my bed, and stay with me. Your room will only be used while you are menstruating and to keep up appearances. Second, your body is mine and mine alone. I will give it pleasure as I see fit, and I will use it as I desire. No one else is allowed to touch you, see you, or want you. Third, all of your stupid bullshit friends at school are toast. I don't want you talking to any of them anymore. We only need each other and they will only ever get in the way. Fourth, you will go to every party with me, but you are not to drink. You are to make my friends want you, but never allow them to touch. They need to envy everything that is mine at all times.

"Are we clear?"

"James, I …."

His hand tightened its grip on my face, causing my eyeball to feel as if it were ready to pop out before he forcibly pushed my face up so I was looking at him. His other hand curled around my ribs and dug into my flesh.

"Part of me owning this luscious little body of yours means I control your pain too, baby. If you don't follow the rules, I will force you. Now, are we clear?"

"Yeth," I whispered, tears pooling in my eyes once more.

"Good, now go lay in bed. I'm going to go get you some Advil and when I get back, I'm going to show you what you missed last night." With those parting words, he shoved me toward the door and left me to follow his orders.


	3. Chapter 2: Green

Warning: This story is for MA audiences only. This story contains adult themes, suggests and depicts rape and abuse of a minor and other questionable actions. A HEA is promised, but there will be a lot of muck to shovel before we get there. This warning applies to all of the story.

Holding Out for a Hero

Chapter Two: Green, Chocolate, and Mahogany

_I need a hero_

_I'm holding out for a hero til the end of the night_

_He's gotta be strong he's gotta fast_

_And he's gotta be fresh from the fight_

The destruction that was my sixteenth birthday was officially a year ago. School had become my safe haven. Whatever happened within those walls didn't exist outside. James had his spies (aka his harpies), but I would easily take whatever beating he threw my way if it meant I was able to have some semblance of a life. My friends knew something was going on with me, but I would never let them in on the filth that had become my life.

For the first few months, I fought like hell to stop what was coming. I kicked, hit, screamed, bit, you name it, I did it to try and keep James away from me. Nothing worked he was too strong. Thankfully, all of my markings were kept to non-visible parts of my body so I would have nothing to disguise or lie about.

I wanted to run and tell someone, beg for help, plead for them to take mercy on me and get me out of my house, but when Social Services showed up at school to take me to foster care one afternoon, my thoughts on the matter changed. James was one person, regardless of how many times he hit me or fucked me, he was one person. Foster care had the potential to be many people. Worse than that, I would have to change schools and lose the only support system I had.

Needless to say, I sent Social Services away, alluding to the fact that my brother was strict and I was tired of living with his rules. I was tired of him telling me I couldn't smoke pot or drink on the weekends. I made myself out to be this rebel without a cause so they would roll their eyes and look the other direction.

Social Services might have been dumb and blind to my situation, but Emmett and Jake weren't. They stepped up the protection detail. Emmett quietly surmised James was beating me or locking me away, but he never vocalized it to anyone in the group other than Rose and me. Of course, he never guessed the severity of the matter. He bought me a trek phone to keep in my room so I could call if ever there was an emergency, and even insisted on loading some under the radar internet messaging system onto my lap top so we could all still chat since my cell phone "disappeared."

I conjured up some ridiculous story about how James and I had to cut our bills, and one of those were cell phones. What my friends didn't know was I still had a phone, but the number was changed, and the only people allowed to have my number were James and his friend, Peter. The line was checked constantly for usage and only to be used when James called me.

Peter was another demon just like James. He picked me up from school and made sure I went home without talking to anyone as I exited the building. He came over every weekend and cut the shit with James while I cleaned the house and cooked all the food. Occasionally, he would show a kind side and help me with my homework, but most often than not, his eyes were lingering over my body and praising James for knowing how to pick 'em.

There were a few times he offered me a way out. Of course, I would never take him up on his offer. Exchanging one demon for another wasn't my idea of a good life. At least with James, I knew the rules and I knew how to abide by them, Peter was unknown. If I cried hard enough, James would stop—who knew if Peter would. I could see it in James' eyes that he hated hurting me, that he only saw it as a necessary evil, would life with Peter be the same? Would he hurt me to keep me in line or would he do it because he got off on that shit?

Things with James weren't always bad. Creepy, yes, bad no. If he were a boyfriend and I wanted to be with him, he could be seen as a good boyfriend, one who loved to dote on me. James made sure I had all of the nicest clothes—granted they all were slutty, but they were nice all the same. He was constantly giving me little touches, on the small of my back, a pet to the back of the head, a light kiss on the temple, he'd brush my hair at night to help me relax, and affectionately rub my feet while I was working on homework. More often than not, his words were affectionate and loving. But none of it was wanted.

I didn't want my step brother to see me as his girlfriend. I didn't want this kind of attention from a guy. Sure, I was interested in guys, there were several at school I found hot, Jake being one of them, but I wasn't interested in moving past the friend zone at this point in my life. I was more focused on school, getting a better life, and making my parents proud than I was at the possibility to hook up with some high school flame. I wanted something real, not some fake high school romance that would last all of a few months until graduation.

Where the ultimate problem with James came was when I didn't want to sleep with him or when something wasn't done to his standards. A few times, I'd gotten too wrapped up in my homework and accidently burnt dinner…yeah, I cringed when I sat down for a week after that. When he caught me talking to a guy from school while we were checking out at the supermarket, I had a hard time standing straight for four days due to an uppercut he tossed into my stomach the second we walked through the door. If my grades slipped in the slightest, I'd end up wearing long sleeves until the bruises were gone.

I knew this wasn't how life was supposed to be. I knew what a functional relationship looked like. I was aware that having this kind of a relationship with a brother—regardless if he was a step brother or not was disgusting, and I cringed every time I thought of it that way. James quickly lost the brother title in my thought process, and simply became 'James'. He was never the boyfriend, never the lover, more often the not, I dubbed him the warden or the prison guard, but never any endearing terms of affection.

The day of my seventeenth birthday lead to Emmett, Rose, Jake, and Sam showing up at my doorstep at one in the afternoon with a birthday cake since it was a Saturday. That was my first strike against me that day. The second was when I allowed them in the house because I didn't want to appear suspicious and raise their questions another notch, and the third was when I told James I was on my period when I really wasn't.

All three grievances added up to one big whammy of a punishment. I sat on edge throughout the entire movie, knowing I was going to be in some serious shit, but wanted the fun more than I didn't want the punishment. I remember the fire in his eyes when he walked in and found my friends and I hulled up in the living room watching some seriously funny movie. Pure hatred seeped through his pores and shot like laser beams from his eyes to mine. Once everyone else became aware of his presence, his stance changed and a fake smile took charge of his lips as he wished me a happy birthday.

James made sure to take the seat directly next to mine and throw his arm over the back of the love seat, marking his territory. Two hours later, my friends left and I ended up pushed into the wall by my throat with tears streaming down my face as I repeatedly told James how sorry I was.

After blacking out, I remember very little, a few sharp painful thrusts to my abdomen, a splintering, almost searing feeling shooting up my arm from my wrist, and a loss of air to my lungs. My head felt as though it were split in two and the massive headache radiating through the back of my neck only told me I had hit something and hit it hard.

When I woke a few hours later, James was hovering over me with some smelling salts and concern written all over his face. Before the words even left his mouth, I knew what he was going to say, the apologies would be heavy and heartfelt. If I hadn't have pushed him over the edge, none of this would have happened.

I beat him to the punch and told him not to worry about it, that I knew it was my fault and about how sorry I was to have broken the rules. The words tasted like stomach acid in my throat, but I knew I needed to say them to keep the peace. A part of me knew that none of this was my fault, that I should be allowed to have friends, but the rational part of me also realized that I knew the rules—I knew what was going to happen if I invited them in, yet I still did it. That made this my fault as much as it was his.

The scream that pierced the air as I tried to sit up alerted James to the fact he went too far. Air stopped moving from my lungs, my body shot rim-rod straight, trying to align something within me so the pain would stop ripping through my body. Before I could think, my right hand went out behind me to try to support me which only caused another blood curdling sound to screech through my parched lips.

"Isabella, Baby, what's wrong?" James begged, his hands ghosting over my body, trying not to cause more pain.

The air came to and from my lungs in quick raspy gasps now. Words were unable to be formed, and a true breath was unobtainable. I could only sit there, clutching my arm to my chest while trying to keep my back as straight as possible so I could draw some semblance of oxygen into my body. Pain ricochet through me once more as James tried to move me. My only sense of peace came as darkness filled my riddled mind and took the world away under its darkness.

When I woke up, I was amerced in bright lights over head and a loud beeping noise in my ear. I could feel James' grip on my hand tighten as he watched my eyes blink open. The prodding on my other arm was a surprise. I opened my eyes again to focus on what was being done to me.

A man in a white coat and blue scrubs was looking down at me. His dark emerald eyes bore into me as he evaluated the situation. I knew he could see through me, he could see the hardships I'd faced over the past year, the pain I felt throughout my body and soul. It took everything in me not to cry and beg him to save me. The look of serenity I found in his green orbs made me feel safe for the first time since my dad died. As hard as I tried, I couldn't keep myself from looking into the depths of his soul. The green continually invited me in and welcomed me home. I knew better by now, but I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to offer him my life story so he could take me far away and keep me safe in his green haven.

This was the part of being a doctor I hated, how a guy could put his girlfriend into this state was beyond unsettling to me. Watching boyfriends carry in the ones they supposedly loved while they were battered and beaten made me ill. How anyone could do this to another human being was out of reality for me. I despised cleaning up other's abuse only to allow them to walk back out the door together so it could happen again.

As if my feelings weren't strong enough on this issue, the brunette being carried in by her "brother" tugged at some string within me that caused the anger to boil at an all new level. Her arms were limp against the man's body, her head tipped forward against his chest. Something about her drew me in and I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why. Somehow, she felt familiar, as if I'd known her all my life. I couldn't explain it, there was this nagging feeling in my gut begging me to protect her and keep her with me.

Forcing the panic to subside, I rushed to the man carrying her with a gurney and helped him lay her down. Her mahogany hair fanned out around her delicate face, making her look merely asleep instead of unconscious and injured. At first glance, I could tell she was still breathing, but that it was abnormal, her breaths were light and followed by a soft whimper that tore me to shreds.

"What happened to her?" I asked, checking her vitals as quickly as possible.

"Her boyfriend is a fucking douche bag and beat the shit out of her," he answered, his fists clenching and loosening as he answered. Anger radiated off him in strong waves almost as if they wanted to permeate my barrier. I took a second and took him in more analytically. He looked like he wanted to be the big man on campus. He was wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, designer tossed jeans, and his blond-semi-wavy hair in a pony tail low on his neck. His eyes were fierce and narrowed causing his blue irises to appear cold and hard. His lips were narrow and slightly puckered showing his distaste of the situation.

Every time I would lay my hand on the victim before me, his breath would hitch, and his agitation would grow. Interesting. Who was this slime-ball and what was his relationship with my patient?

I opened her eye lid and flashed my light in, trying to register any kind of activity. The chocolate I saw behind her lids was lifeless but deep. It was obvious she wore her heart in her eyes when she was functional, I could see it already even in this form. From what I could tell, she merely passed out; by process of elimination, I quickly deduced it was from either pain or lack of oxygen.

"What did he do to her?" I asked quickly, trying to run through her injuries as quickly as I could. I noticed the contusions forming around her larynx, a slight trickle of blood from her hairline, and discoloration around her left eye. With growing urgency, I lifted her shirt and forced the air from my body. New bruising and lacerations scattered over her stomach and up into her chest. First glance told me there was a slight pooling of blood on her left side which could be nothing, but could also indicate internal bleeding; only a CT could tell me what was truly going on.

"Where's her boyfriend now?" I questioned, knowing if he were anywhere in the premises, I would most likely kill him.

"Most likely the hospital," he growled, his eyes snapping to mine with sheer hatred piercing through me.

"Who are you?"

"Her brother. Now are you going to treat her or do I need to find a real doctor in this fucking hell hole?" he snapped.

Without another word, I pushed the brunette angel into the closest observation room. I quickly filled out the paperwork and requested a nurse's assistance to change her into a hospital gown while I waited for radiology to take her to CT so I could further examine her.

Every stuttered breath from my patient caused her 'brother' to whisper softly how sorry he was. His words only brought about more questions for me. What is he sorry for? Why would he be sorry? What was his part in this?

Fifteen minutes of preliminary examinations and mental questions later, radiology showed up and wheeled Isabella Marie Dawyer, age twenty, from my examining room. Following protocol, I excused myself from the room and began the process of checking her in and getting her paperwork together — essentially doing anything, I could to look busy so I wasn't given another case while she was still unconscious. I wanted to be the one to treat her, to see her brown eyes open for the first time, to get some answers.

Half an hour after she was taken from the ER, I was called up to the lab to help look at the results and make a reading. Her head CT checked out clear, abdomen and chest showed three broken ribs and deep bruising, along with soft tissue damage that would heal on its own without medical treatment.

When pushing her back into the hall, I noticed the odd angle at which her right wrist was laying on the gurney. How I missed that earlier, I'll never know but forever beat myself up for. I was too busy looking for trivial things that I missed the most simple of injuries. Of course, it would need to be reset, but a quick cast and a mild NSAID and pain reliever would help that heal within six to eight weeks.

Her brother was on top of us the moment we pushed through the ER doors asking questions. I wanted to ask him to leave or at least to wait in the waiting room, but as her only family present, I knew he would raise a ruckus and it would only accomplish more aggravation. Something about him was screaming at me not to trust him, not to allow him near the angel in my care.

"Doc, what's wrong with her?" he asked, taking her uninjured hand. "Will she be okay? Why is she out?"

I wanted to growl and curse him for even touching her, though I wasn't sure why. Before I had the chance to act unprofessionally, I said the most medical thing I could think of.

"Sometimes the only test we can offer is time. Her head CT came back normal, no abrasions or contusions on the brain. There are no explanations for why she is unconscious. Did she suffer from lack of oxygen at any point during her attack?" I asked. I already knew the answer but I wanted to see what he would say. Leading into this kind of a trap was my specialty. If he gave an answer insinuating he was there, he was the one who harmed her. Nine times out of ten I'd been right with my analysis.

Isabella's nail beds were a healthy color and showed no discoloration with pressure applied, her eyes were normal, no blue hues to her lips or gums told me she was never deprived of oxygen for long. The bruising around her neck told me that her attacker did choke her, but he only squeezed hard for a short period of time.

"I don't believe so. She was awake before I brought her here. She was having a hard time breathing and was clutching at her wrist, do you think that's why she's unconscious?" pretty boy asked.

Purposefully avoiding the question, I moved on. "Does she have any drug allergies? I want to put her on a pain medication but we don't have any records of her ever being to the hospital before."

He simply shrugged as he thought. "She hasn't been sick since I've known her. I don't even think she's on birth control," he answered. Why a brother would know that, I wasn't sure.

"Where are your parents?"

"They are dead, it's just her and I." His answer made me even more uneasy. I knew Isabella wasn't twenty. If anything she was maybe eighteen at the most, but I would put my money on sixteen. If this fucker was her caretaker and doing this to her, what else was he doing?

"I'm going to have to call the police; do you know her boyfriend's name? Where we could find him? Any information that might help them locate him so she can press charges when she wakes up?" It wasn't my job to collect this information but I wanted to see how far I could push him, what answers I could pull out of him before the police arrived and he had time to think of a way to change his story.

"They just started dating a few weeks ago, I don't know much about him other than he goes to the University and is a Psych major."

I nodded. "What's your name?"

"James Dawyer," he answered simply.

I nodded and gave my customary response, making sure to tell him to have the nurse page me when she woke. No matter how much I wanted to help her and treat her, I couldn't remain in the same room as this fucker. He wouldn't do anything further to her while they were here. I had a tally of all of her injuries and a nurse would be in constantly to check on her. She was safe…for now.

Three hours in the on-call room was what she made me wait. Three, mind numbing, head pounding, room pacing hours before she woke from her slumber. The moment I received the page, I was sprinting to her side, nothing was going to keep me from her. By the time I entered the room, nurse Cope already had Isabella sitting up, waiting for my instruction and further examination. Her ribs were already wrapped, wrist splinted and head bandaged up, now came the hard part—the part where I tried not to look like a dumbass.

Even as a resident, I knew my shit. I'd been around patients and the medical field all my life because of my father, but actually showing patients I knew what I was talking about was another story entirely. People saw me as too young, inexperienced. Little did they know I'd been pushing IVs and drawing blood since I was fresh out of high school. I passed the EMT training while still a freshman in college and worked the bus on the weekends and off school hours. I'd been saving lives since I was nineteen.

"Hello, Isabella, how are you feeling?" I asked, then berated myself for how formal and stuffy I sounded. She looked up at me for a split second before altering her gaze to anything but me.

"Better than I was?" she answers in question form, all the while looking to James for support.

"Alright, and I just have a few questions to ask you before we proceed. Isabella, how old…"

"Bella, it's just Bella," she interrupted, her uninjured hand picking at her splint.

"Okay, Bella, how old are you?" I finished, slightly excited she gave me permission to call her by her informal name.

"Twenty, I already told you all this," James blurted out. Someone not paying attention never would have caught Bella's slight cower. Even with her eyes down casted, I could see the fear that sparked within her at his raised voice.

"She did sustain an injury to the head, I need this information from her so I can assess her properly," I scolded professionally. I wanted to scream and tell him to stop being a douche, but I could wind up out of the program if I did that.

"Twenty," Bella answered. "I just turned today."

"Happy birthday," I praised quietly. She looked up at me briefly and smiled softly before looking back down at her lap.

"Can you tell me what you did today?"

"I woke up, some friends came over to celebrate my birthday by spending a day in and watching a movie…." She broke off and looked at James for the rest of the story. "I don't remember anything much after that. They left, and I ended up here,"

"Who did this to you?" I asked softly.

"I already told you…"

"I wasn't asking you," I gritted out. "If you keep interrupting, I'm going to have to ask you to step out."

James reached over and took Bella's good hand. My eyes followed his movement and sighed internally as I watched her reluctantly wrap her fingers around his. Her hesitation was warmth in my soul.

Bella's teeth came out and started gnawing on her lower lip. Watching her eyes dart around the room slowly, I realized my first assessment of her eyes was correct—she wore her soul in her eyes. Every thought, every feeling showed full force. Even though I only got small glances, I saw the beauty and felt more connected to her. Something about her drew me in and I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Jay, can you go get the car? I want to go home?"

"That okay doc?" James asked, mouthing off sarcastically. "Can I take my sister home?"

"I would prefer…."

"Is there a reason to make her stay any longer? The doctor that came in while she was asleep wrote her a script and said she was out due to pain. It's under control, why would you keep her here unnecessarily? Am I going to have to sign her out AMA and report your sorry ass?"

I felt my mouth open then close again, completely dry. I couldn't believe what he was saying. More than that, I couldn't feel comfortable with her leaving.

James kissed Bella's temple and whispered something to her before leaving the room.

The second the door clicked shut and I remained silent for a few remaining moments to make sure he was clear from the door.

"Did he do this to you?" I asked, softly, pleading for her to tell me so I could help her.

"I can't tell you who did this to me," she answered, looking up at me, making eye contact again.

"I can't help you unless you tell me."

Once again, her eyes flicked down to her lap and she shook her head.

"Bella, I want to help you. I want to make sure you're safe. Let me help you," I begged. Without realizing it, I moved from my stool and made my way to her bed. My hand found hers and softly squeezed it.

"I can't," she whispered, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Bella…."

"Why do I feel like I know you?" she asked. "Something about you tells me to trust you, but I can't. It will only make things worse."

"Promise me, if you need me, if you need help, if you need _anything_, you'll call me?"

She looked up into my eyes again, I watched as fear clouded her eyes and shroud whatever else she was feeling.

"I can't…."

"You can!" I stressed, lightly squeezing her hand. "I'll protect you from whoever did this."

"I don't even know you!" she insisted.

Heavy foot falls sounded through the hall, alerting us someone was coming and our time was coming to a close.

"Just promise me. You will call me if you need anything." I pressed a small piece of paper into her hand with my phone number on it.

Her hand tightened around mine before I let go and returned to my seat. I wanted to beg her to stay, to come with me now but I knew there was no way to do it without him knowing she was with me. She would never be safe if he knew where she was, let alone know she was with me.

I would do anything to make sure she was safe. I couldn't understand it myself. I just met this girl, maybe spoken a half dozen words to her, but I would lay my life down for her in an instant, no questions asked. What it was about this chocolate eyed, mahogany haired beauty that owned me I wasn't sure, but she sure as hell did. Watching her walk away, knowing what she was going into was killing me. The only hope I had could hold was her calling me—and soon.


End file.
